Warning! Erotic content on the way.
I know, I almost never do this, but much like that time last October, I’ve once again experienced the joy of a surprise short-duration writing exercise which produced some creative juice. And so once again I figured I’d post the results here for your entertainment. This time, the impetus was ORAL, Toronto’s new monthly erotic reading series, the brainchild of Jon Pressick. I read at tonight’s edition of the series, which brought together a grand collection of fine writers, including Midori, Suki Lee, Carlyle Jansen and several others. Jon holds a “quickie” at each month’s ORAL, in which he throws out a theme to the audience at break time and then invites the writers to share their work on stage afterward. Fun! You should come to the next one – I certainly plan to. In the meantime I’m also seriously thinking I might need to get my honeys to call me with a theme once a week and set a timer so this happens more regularly!
Tonight’s theme was “resistance.”
There was no such thing as resistance in her world. Everyone always did exactly what she said. The houseboy did the dishes with the all-natural vegan loofah sponge, and the biodegradable fragrance-free locally produced organic dish soap, to the perfect sparkle every time. Her eggs were cooked for exactly nine minutes from a small pot of cold, and that means cold, water, and served with German rye, thin-cut, with olive oil margarine, one half of an avocado sliced in cubes, four raspberries, eight blueberries and a pinch of Himalayan sea salt. Her boots were always polished, her clothes perfectly pressed, her toilet bowl sparkling clean. In short, he served without any resistance to her slightest whim.
And she. Was bored. To tears.
So she started seeking. But everyone she met wanted so terribly to please, to obey. The girl at Starbucks always made the perfect latte. Her employees consistently met her most stringent deadlines, and she begrudgingly complimented their skill, and resentfully watched them glow with pride. Even her mother only called once a month now, ever since she told her, in no uncertain terms, that more frequent contact was simply unwelcome.
The kink community was even worse. Obsequious men held the door for her, bought her drinks, suffered her lashes without complaint. Fawning females followed her every preference to perfection, even when she once ordered one poor girl to tear exactly four one-inch-wide runs in her fishnets without letting them run together. It was downright maddening.
And then, one day, she met him.
It was an accident, really. She tripped over the corner of a piece of carpeting at the new club, which was still under construction. She got the attention of the closest service boy, and said, “This needs some duct tape. Take care of it.”
He looked at her, stopping at her cleavage. He raised his gaze up again and met her eyes, reached into the pocket of his coveralls, extracted a roll of gooey silver tape, and tossed it into the air, where it hung for a second before falling neatly at her feet. And then he turned and walked away.
Her cunt suddenly felt oddly plump, and she felt a tiny knot of tension just under her sternum.
She approached him. “Turn around,” she said, as he stacked chairs.
He kept stacking. Her cunt clenched.
“Get on your knees, boy,” she commanded.
He remained firmly standing, and she noticed how wide and muscular his shoulders were under the dark blue material, and she felt a trickle begin to work its way down her thigh. Small pulses began to flicker through her clit.
She thought fast.
“Keep right on stacking those chairs,” she ordered, one eyebrow raised.
He stopped. Slowly, he turned. He took a step toward her.
“Stay right where you are.”
He took two more steps, casually, sauntering. He came close enough that she could smell his breath—not unpleasant, she noted. He looked down at her. Her clit was throbbing so hard she almost couldn’t think, but she had one last trick in mind.
“Do whatever you feel like doing,” she breathed.
He paused and looked at her for a long moment, for the first time visibly distressed.
“No,” he said, with a frown.
And the orgasm, which hit her like a series of lightning bolts, was so fucking sweet she almost cried.